


her

by decidingdolan



Series: grey (if only) [4]
Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Conflicted Heart, F/M, Introspection, Musing, Retrospective, Second Person, suggested one-sided Harry/Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 13:36:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1943151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's complicated, you'd told him when he asked who she was. Your lady. It's complicated, because Gwen Stacy happened, and now you couldn't tear yourself away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	her

 

> I had lost my mind and fallen into my heart.
> 
> \-- Dan Millman,  _Way of the Peaceful Warrior_

 

* * *

 

_Gwen Stacy._

Her name rolled around in his tongue like something fresh. Something new. Something of a revelation. A discovery. A couple of words to be relished.

_Gwen Stacy._

You’d let out the words in passing. With difficulty. Forced them out of your lips, when you’d held onto them tight and wanted them to remain yours.

Wanted the tangled matters—whatever was complicated between you and her—to sink into you and you alone.

You’d hesitated. You’d stalled. You’d attempted to stray him away. Stumbled over your yes’s and your no’s. Climbed over that barrier just so you could grasp onto something. Be at a distance away from him when he brought her up.

You got a lady?

The nerve of him. That kind of catching up question. You got a lady? How suave. How casual. He’d swung out the sentence at you, hands in his blazers’ flap pockets, hit you in the face. Slapped you, and you were held back, words caged in your throat.

You don’t…you did….you do…you may….have. You got a lady. You ain’t got a lady. You’ve got a lady.

(More like she’s got you. More. She’s the rock, and you’re the vine. She’s the finish line, and you’re a stop along the way.

She’s got you.

Bangs, lively green eyes, rosy lips, that husky voice. That little turn around she once did when you first asked her out. That face she’d made when you managed to confess how amazing of a kisser she was.

Her nose nuzzling yours when her lips drank you in. Her voice whispering close to your ears—that intoxicating sound that’s cast a permanent spell on you since Day One.

And I’m going to do my speech for you. Over and over.

That’s kind of how she happened to you. Over and over. Her on your computer. Her in your sights. Her in your camera lens. Her in your arms. Her in your heart. Her in your life.

Over and over.

She’d happened to you, and she’d happened to you all over again, each time you forgot yourself and ignored the promise you’d shattered into a million pieces.

She’s got you.

Heart and mind. You let her in, you wanted her there. You had to have her. Be with her. Feel her near. Hold her close. Hear her laugh. Listen to her voice.

Watch her little nose rub.

It’s allergy season.

If there’s one thing you were certain you’re allergic to, it’s her. Definitely, definitely her.

You couldn’t seem to stay away.

She’s got you.

You were only so lucky to have her too.)

You threw him off. Fragments of sentences. Phrases. A repetition of your favorite phrase to dismiss unwanted, probing attention—the classic. Nothing too cryptic. Nothing too harsh.

The universal ‘leave me alone on this matter because my brain’s not in this at all’ phrase.

_I don’t know._

_I don’t know. It’s complicated. I don’t know._

You’d told him. Thrown in that word for emphasis.

It’s on and off with her. It’s self-control and then it’s utter loss of conscience. It’s tasting her on your tongue, lips swallowing hers in, hands around her waist, like you wouldn’t have another chance to do so, and then it’s forcing your eyes away from her approaching figure, steadying your stubborn, straying heart, willing yourself to step out of the room when she’d stepped in, and turning off the lights she’d switched on in your mind when her days started blending into yours.

It’s staring down at her and coaxing yourself to get a grip over those adorable green eyes. It’s being accidentally (you swore) locked in the science lab with her afterschool and choosing to ignore that little black dust on her eyelashes.

It’s your hands grabbing her to you, against the pull of gravity, against the pull of the promise you’d made, and it’s your senses taking her in. It’s your lips pressed up against hers while realizing you’re in the wrong. (Hadn’t you always been?)

It’s your heart rushing up to her and your mind giving it the go-ahead signal.

It’s you yourself being so goddamn helpless when you were around her.

Complicated. Ties that you wanted to cut but couldn’t be broken. Lips that you wanted to tear yourself from but found yours thirsting for more. Voice that you wanted to tune off but kept hearing on repeat in your head. Eyes that you wanted to forget but became indelible in your mind. Mannerisms that you wanted to dismiss but had morphed into every single jigsaw piece of her in your eyes.

Complicated.

It’s the in-betweens, right? It’s the uh’s—and the ah’s—the you know’s—and the I don’t know’s. The ellipses in a relationship. That invisible punctuation mark.

Complicated.

If she hadn’t made it so easy.

If only it’d hurt a little less, turning away.

Complicated.

Incomprehensible, not categorized. Could not be found. Could not be described, elaborated, analyzed, or solved.

This stupid matter you had. This inevitable, human turmoils of the heart. You’d assembled the blocks—the building blocks of you and her—sky high, and now you’d become too attached to destroy them all at once. To sit yourself down and tackle this task, this complication.

Complicated.

Exactly, exactly why you didn’t want to. Why you wouldn’t. And you’d been tiptoeing around, shoving the label into the matter’s face, painting a layer onto your relationship.

He said his piece, then. You’d nodded and looked away from him, briefly. Predictable. How typical of him. How very Harry Osborn.

_Yeah, I don’t do complicated._

That nonchalant shrug, those lips curling up. Eyes hidden behind those sunglasses that you couldn’t decipher.

Because why would he? Why should he?

When you’re an heir of a multimillion dollar company, and money’s the least of all your problems, why would you even come close to complicated in the relationships department.

That’s right. You wouldn’t.

Say, I don’t do complicated, and waltz off. Take your pick, whatever you want, whatever you need. Get the girls, get the satisfaction, get the mind full and the body satiated and the heart quieted. Get the attention, the sweet talks, the compliments, the intimacy. Without complications.

Complicated.

Probably a non-existent word in his dictionary.

He asked her name then. Wanted to know who she was. Her identity.

He’d just made his way back into your life, only just, and you were sharing with him your complicated. You were sharing with him a part of you, from your point of view, how you’d seen her.

You were sharing with him. You were sharing with him. Talking to him, about her.

_Gwen Stacy._

And he’d caressed the syllables that made up her. Rolled them in his tongue.

Like something fresh. Something new. Something of a revelation.

A discovery. A couple of words to be relished.


End file.
